“Sure I do” is all he says before returning to his trek back to the gazebo.
“Hey!” I yell when he’s far enough that I trust myself not to attack. “I look less what?” He stops but doesn’t turn or answer my question, which only makes me more determined to know. “Come on, Dillon, you said you don’t sugarcoat. What were you going to say?”
He glances over his shoulder, just enough that I see his profile and maybe even the slightest hint of contrition. “Broken. You look less broken.”
four
I’m shaking by the time I slam Aunt Doreen’s front door. “Did you tell Mr. Kyle about what happened in San Antonio?”
“Well hello to you, too.” She appears as if out of a TV sitcom from the fifties, with a towel in her hand, an apron wrapped around her waist, and an expression that’s one part scolding and the other part concerned. “Any particular reason you’re shouting at me from the doorway?”
I close my eyes and quietly take two deep breaths. Sometimes I forget how different Doreen’s house is from the one I grew up in. Yelling was natural there. Here it’s an anomaly. When my heart rate calms, I try again. “I talked with Dillon today, and he seemed awfully informed on my colossal lack in judgment. He wasn’t all that sympathetic about it, either.” I know my voice is accusing, but if she’s planning on spilling my secrets to the world, she should at least give me a heads-up.
“Dillon Kyle is an angry young man for reasons that have absolutely nothing to do with you.” She wraps an arm around my shoulder and squeezes me to her chest. I can’t help but acquiesce. She smells like cinnamon and a perfume I would hate in the store but love on her because it makes me feel safe. “But, yes, we did tell his father what happened, because Robert is a very dear friend of ours and I wanted someone I trust watching out for you.” She walks me toward the kitchen. “Plus, your uncle can’t keep a secret to save his life, and they’re fishing buddies.”
“Great,” I moan. “The whole world is going to know I’m a fool.”
“Falling in love does not make you a fool.”
“No, but moving halfway across the country on a whim sure does.”
Doreen kisses the top of my head. She’s two inches taller than I and four inches taller than my mother. It seems fitting since she’s always been the older, wiser one. “Well, look at it this way: if you had gotten married, it would have been one heck of a romantic story.”
I snort but find the tears receding and my temper completely gone. “Dinner smells good.”
She unlatches her arms and returns to the stove. Only then do I notice what she’s wearing beneath her lime green apron: black slacks, a blinged-out hot pink sweater, and stiletto boots.
Yes, my sixty-year-old aunt has more style and grace than I’ll ever possess, especially when my daily choice of attire lately is sweat pants, fuzzy boots, and my ratty old junior college sweatshirt.
“Well, are you going to leave me in suspense or tell me how the interview went today?”
I pick up a carrot and sneak it into my mouth before she turns. “It went well, I guess. They hired me.”
She spins around so fast that bits of sautéed onion fly from the spoon. “They did?”
I get her surprise. I’m still questioning if I imagined the whole thing. “Yeah. Not one inquiry about my job performance or my personal beliefs. I guess they assumed since you’re so holy and dedicated, I must be, too.” I slip that last part in as a warning. My aunt put her name and reputation on the line for me, and I’m not exactly the most trustworthy of choices. I dropped out of college after only two semesters, quit my first three “real” jobs, and until he-who-will-not-be-named came along, I went through boyfriends nearly as quickly as my mom did.
Unfortunately, there’s a lot more of her in me than I like to admit.
Doreen nods as if she gets an answer from some unseen being. “Well, it is what it is. I hope you see this as an opportunity and take full advantage of the kindness you’ve been shown.”
“I do, and I will.” Not just for me, but also for her. Then I think of all the people I met today and realize I want to do it for them, as well. There’s something special in that office, a feeling I can’t quite define but know I need more of.
She stretches her arm out and pulls the cutting board away before I can eat any more of her chopped goodies. “Can you grab me the chicken stock?”
“Yep.” I rummage through her walk-in pantry and take out two large cartons. I can tell by the ingredients that we’re having her homemade chicken soup tonight, and my stomach delights as the smell of seared vegetables fills the kitchen.
Yet another difference between my mom and aunt. Mom’s idea of cooking is opening a box of Hamburger Helper.
As I set the cartons on the counter, my eyes flicker to the invoice on the fridge. The letterhead matches the side of the trucks perfectly, Kyle’s Construction and Landscaping, and the amount due is enough to make my insides turn.
I’ve always known my aunt and uncle are wealthy, but I’m quickly learning that my idea of wealth and their reality are not even in the same stratosphere. Probably an added bonus as to why my mom resents her older sister so much.
“Why are you suddenly so quiet?” Doreen asks, and I realize I’ve been staring at the invoice for longer than is natural.
“Sorry. I was just thinking about—” I nearly speak the truth when that familiar twist stops me; mentioning the fallout with my mother always makes Doreen’s mood plummet, and I don’t want to do that tonight—“what you said regarding Dillon and his being angry. What happened?”
Doreen sets the spoon against the pot and affectionately tucks a piece of hair back from my face. “That’s not my story to tell.”
“Well, his dad doesn’t seem to share your same integrity.” I stubbornly fold my arms. “Dillon knows my sordid past. I think it’s more than fair that I know his.”
“Maybe so, but I’m still not going to be the one to tell you.” I pout and she gives me her signature scolding eyebrow. The one I’ve seen both my cousins imitate. “Let me put it this way. I would think that you, after all the hurt you’ve experienced over the past few months, would offer a little grace back to someone who is hurting, too.”
“You are far too noble.” Dillon Kyle looked nothing like a man in pain, but then again, Doreen’s love for the weak and wounded is why I’m here in her kitchen.
She grabs a towel, and I know I need to move or she’s going to snap it right at my bottom.
I scurry away. “I’ll set the table.”
“Add a couple more place settings.”
“What? For who?”
Doreen’s grin is downright smug. “I invited the Kyles over after they finish for the day.”
My mouth slacks, and she nearly squawks with laughter.
“Just kidding. See, an old woman can have a sense of humor, too.” Her wink warms my insides as the last bit of tension from the day rolls completely off my shoulders.
Okay fine, maybe Dillon wasn’t too far off base in his assessment.
I do feel a little less broken.
five
I show up at Grace Community at exactly 8:25 a.m. dressed in my best church-appropriate clothes and ready to kill it on my first day. The sun’s shining and is supposed to stay that way until this evening when a dreaded cold front is forecast to blow in. Until then, though, I’m going to soak up every ounce of this sixty-five-degree day and count it as confirmation that I’m exactly where I belong . . . well, minus the whole believing in a higher power thing.
Head high, lungs full of excited breath, I knock carefully on Eric’s open office door and get a cheery “Come in!”
He looks just like he did yesterday, except his jeans are lighter and his shirt is blue. He’s also moving before I make it past the threshold.
“Perfect timing. I have a meeting in ten minutes, and I want to get you settled first.”
We walk—well, he walks while I speed-step to keep up. I’m starting to understand
why everyone in the office wears casual shoes. They all seem to move like racquetballs in a men’s over-forty tournament.
Ralph O’Neal, the discipleship and education pastor, is located on the second floor of the admin building, along with several of the other ministers. Or at least that’s what my cheat sheet says. I had Doreen give me a rundown of the staff members and all the special committees in the church. Not only is the page full, front and back, but she said tomorrow she’d get me a list of all the Bible study and life group leaders. It’s the first time since high school that I truly value my ability to quickly memorize names and facts. I never realized the enormous amount of people it took to keep a church running.
We take the stairs because Eric says the elevator is slow. Personally, I think they must have a Fitbit contest going on. A sheen of sweat is already forming across my forehead and I still have five steps until I reach the top.
“I met with the personnel team last night,” Eric says when I finally catch up with him. “Their goal is to start advertising this week for a permanent hire, so we’re thinking four months for sure, maybe five, if that works for you.”
I quickly do the math. That would be nine months from when I made the fateful decision to leave my hometown and follow a guy to San Antonio. And a year from when we began our tumultuous romance.
“I think your plan sounds perfect.” And it does. When I return to Georgia in May, I’ll be a different person. Not just less broken but healed. “Plus, it’s a great opportunity to widen my résumé.”
Eric stills for a brief moment, and I’m learning that when he has something important to say, he always stops moving and looks directly at me. While it’s unnerving, I also kind of respect the gesture.
“Your flexibility and positive attitude are such a gulp of fresh air right now. Our church is exploding, and yet I feel as if Satan is attacking our staff on every side. He wants to take us down because of the work we’re doing for the Lord, and it’s not going to happen. Not on my watch.”
I’m grateful when he returns to his remote-control-car speed and quits with the demon talk. I’ve never been one for horror flicks and certainly not in the building where I plan to spend every weekday. Yet Eric talks about the devil as if he’s real and not just some made-up character to scare children into listening to their parents.
Mom believes in fate and karma. I don’t believe in anything except my own abilities. Good things happen when you work hard, and bad things happen when you’re stupid. San Antonio, stupid. Grace Community, hard work. Well, at least I think this job will be a good thing. I swivel my head to check the edges of the hallway, half expecting a masked man in a red suit and horns to come popping out, and rush to catch up with Eric.
He stops a few strides later at a closed door. “This is it.”
It’s the only office door I’ve seen closed in the building, and I have a sinking suspicion that Ralph is not going to be one of the overtly friendly ones I’ve met so far.
Eric knocks and a gruff “Yeah?” echoes under the door, confirming my apprehension. Oh well, it’s just for a few months. I can endure anything for that length of time.
As we walk into Ralph’s office, my brain nearly explodes. The problem with categorizing useless details to an obsessive level is that stimulation overload is a real thing. Not only is the office twice the size of all the others I’ve seen, but it’s also a complete disaster. Like a serious you-may-need-to-be-on-Hoarders kind of mess.
My glance darts across the room. The corners are filled with cardboard boxes, not labeled but overflowing with small magazines named Quarterly. Paper and trash fill the floor around Ralph’s desk even though he has two good-sized trash cans, both of them overflowing like the boxes. There are four bookshelves in the room, which are packed tight. Books are stacked in front of the vertical rows to the point I can’t even read the spines.
A small table—maybe an intended workspace—is shoved against the back wall and completely covered with craft supplies and what looks to be old media equipment. The serial number on the TV is KR786W79V. I focus on that number, and slowly the ache in my head starts to subside.
“Now you know why we make him keep his office door shut,” Eric whispers to me, and I think he means it to be funny, but I’m still way too close to panicking to find any humor in the situation.
“Where am I going to sit?” It’s a selfish thing to ask, I know, especially since it’s fairly obvious that this poor guy is completely swamped, but there is no way I can be of any help in a space this full of stimulation.
Eric frowns like he can’t believe he didn’t think of that little detail. “Hmm. Well, the band room is unused most of the time. I’ll get you a key, and you can work there for now.”
I think of Cameron, and my chest flutters. His guitar pick hasn’t left my person since he gave it to me. It’s tucked in the hidden pocket on the inside of my skirt, pressed against my hip bone. The comfort a tiny piece of plastic gives makes no logical sense. But even now, my palm is pressed against the spot and I feel some of the tension fade. “Thank you.”
Ralph stands as we shove aside stray boxes and progress to the center of the room. My eyes lift toward the ceiling. The man’s a giant, the kind who has to duck so that the light fixture doesn’t brush the top of his head. I stand there seriously wondering if I need to buy some magic beans and call myself Jack.
“Ralph, this is January Sanders. She’ll be assisting you for the next few months while the prayer initiative gets squared away.” He looks around the room. “And she can help you with any other projects you have.”
Ralph doesn’t look pleased, nor does he offer his hand like everyone else I’ve met here has. “Does that mean we’re not getting a permanent minister? Because you promised me when you tacked on these new initiatives that we’d hire someone for pastoral care.”
“And we will, just as soon as we find the right person.” His voice turns authoritative. “In the meantime, January here is very proficient at organizing.”
Not sure where Eric got that tidbit from, but okay, I’ll do what I seem to do best here: smile and keep my mouth shut.
Ralph presses his lips into a line and looks down at me. “Sorry about the mess. This is what happens when you have one person doing a ten-person job.” It’s not just bitterness in his tone, it’s utter defeat, and suddenly Ralph doesn’t seem so intimidating. In fact, my heart fills with an odd feeling. I don’t even know what to call it, only that I really want to help this man.
“Well, now you have two people, or maybe two and a half, if you count it in feet.”
My joke seems to make his face relax slightly, the redness easing a little from his cheeks. Now they’re more reddish-orange, matching his hair and the curly strands on his forearms. Ralph reminds me of an old Scottish highlander, lacking only the beard and the accent, though imagining the lilt when he talks might keep things light between us. And maybe I’ll throw in a kilt, since his clothes look like they were pulled from his bedroom floor this morning. His short-sleeve, button-up shirt has so many wrinkles, I lose count after I get past the first arm hem.
A ding sounds from Eric’s pocket, and he pulls out his phone. “I have to run.” He glances between me and Ralph like he feels bad for leaving but has no choice. “You two get acquainted and I’ll check in later.” He slides his phone back and turns to escape, stopping only to tell me he’ll leave the band room key with Margie.
The air turns awkward almost immediately after. “Well, any idea what you need me to do first?”
Ralph walks to the back wall, picks up an overflowing box of thin one-sided cards, and stops in front of me. “Sort these.”
I realize he’s waiting for me to react. “Oh, sorry.” I adjust my purse on my shoulder and take the box from him. It seems bigger and heavier in my arms, but then again, he’s likely more than a foot taller than me and easily a hundred pounds heavier.
“For now, just separate them by medical, family, job, and any other grouping that s
tands out.” He tugs open a drawer in his desk, fiddles around, then pulls out a bag of rubber bands. “Once we get a good idea of what we’ve got, we’ll start distributing them among the staff.” He sets the bag on top of my teetering pile of papers, and I know at any minute a cascade of white is going to spill over.
I carefully adjust and dare to ask a really stupid question. “What are these?”
“Prayer requests from the congregation. We get about a hundred every Sunday and even more through our website.” There’s far more than a hundred pieces of paper in this box. Ralph must sense my confusion and adds, “We’re a little behind, as you can see. These go back to October, so you may find that some of them have already been answered. You can make a stack for those, as well.”
“You’re telling me you guys read all of these every week?”
“Not just read them, but pray for them all week, and ideally we’d like to follow up with the members.” A sigh of resignation fills the room. “Unfortunately, right now we’re lucky if they make it out of the box.”
It’s weird; I’ve always heard people promise to pray or say they will, but I never really paid much attention. I thought the words were throwaway phrases, like Let’s get together or I’ll call you, to end the conversation and get on with the day. But Ralph seems genuinely concerned over the untouched pile of papers staring back at us. Of course, considering the state of his clothes and his office, his frustration might have nothing to do with the prayer cards at all.
“Well, don’t worry. Every one of these cards will see the light of day.” I internally cringe as I realize I’m the one who will now be reading each request. Worse, I know every word will stick in my brain until the unforeseeable future. I back up to the doorway before he can read the apprehension on my face. “I’m going to set up in the band room, unless you had somewhere else you wanted me to sit?”
Love and a Little White Lie Page 3
